Darkwind, p.13
Darkwind, page 13
“I asked,” Cistine said. “You fought for us.”
“I wasn’t sure what else was being negotiated. It’s like Tati and Ari said…we don’t take in many visitors.”
“What would you have done if you’d won rights to us?” Cistine was almost frightened to ask, but she needed to know.
“Most likely, I would’ve gotten you killed.” Quill released her arm. “I would’ve turned you out into the wilds. And judging by the state of your friend’s leg and the way you land a hit, you would’ve been dead inside a week.”
So he’d deduced the same thing Cistine had: that the safest place for her, for now, was Hellidom. “Thank you for making the attempt.”
Quill shrugged. “I told Thorne he had to make a choice, either way. He couldn’t hold you captive. We aren’t slavers.”
“And he listened to you?”
“Thorne may be dense as a tree about some things, and moodier than Maleck, but he listens.” Quill backed away from her, spreading his feet a shoulder’s width apart and gesturing for her to do the same. “All right. We’ll make this simple to begin with. Stretches. Then we’ll jog. After that, core-strengthening exercises.”
“That’s all?” Cistine said. “Three things. And that will take us until noon?”
Quill smirked. “I’ll be surprised if you survive that long.”
Perhaps because he’d challenged her—or because he’d fought for her, and he deserved some show of gratitude for that, even if it was only that she would try—Cistine mimicked his stance. “I’ll survive until fifteen minutes past sunhigh.”
Quill laughed. “Then we shouldn’t waste a single precious second.”
In the end, Cistine fell far short of her own goal—and Quill’s. She couldn’t touch her toes or straighten her legs completely for the stretches. She could only jog half a mile around Hellidom before she had to walk, with a stitch throbbing in her side and her blisters pinching against the sides of her toes and the balls of her feet, and inside another mile she begged for relief. After only one set of core-strengthening exercises, she was dizzy and out of breath.
To his credit—and quite possibly to spare his own life—Quill didn’t remark on her failures. He simply accommodated her pace, and assured her, as they made their way back to the Den well before noon, that she would do much better tomorrow in actual training attire. But Cistine doubted she would ever manage more than the half-mile jog or the dozen squats and lunges before she toppled over in a heap.
It was a relief when they climbed the short flight of rock steps to the door of the Den. Cistine tumbled inside, sweating and out of breath, and nearly collided with Thorne on the other side. His hand touched her elbow, steadying her, and his cold gaze jumped from her face to Quill’s, asking a silent question Cistine didn’t want to hear the answer to. She stormed to the kitchen instead, and nearly wept with joy when she saw both Ashe and Julian there.
“Finally!” Ashe pushed out a seat for Cistine with her good foot. The strong smell of herbs hung over her body; Cistine identified the crispness of a salt poultice and something oniony that made her nose wrinkle.
“How was training?” Julian asked, deceptively casual as Cistine took up the seat beside him instead of the one Ashe had offered her.
“An absolute disaster.” Cistine glared at Ashe when she snorted. “What was that for?”
“Am I no longer allowed to clear my throat in your presence?”
“Not when it implies—Ashe,” Cistine interrupted herself, leaning forward. “What is it?”
The humor crumbled from Ashe’s features. “I’m still not comfortable with this. Sending you away with one of these murderers every morning, where we can’t keep watch over you.”
“You can come along with us if it will make you feel better…if your leg can manage it. But it won’t be good for much other than your amusement.”
“Not everyone is built for life with a sword in hand,” Julian said.
“I haven’t even touched a sword yet! It’s the jogging and stretching that I’m terrible at.”
Her friends traded amused smiles, but they didn’t push the subject as Cistine helped herself to a plate of carved pork shoulder that took up the center of the long table. Her early retirement from training with Quill gave her more time to eat, and she managed to devour two helpings while Julian and Ashe discussed the city and their plans to scour it for information.
Cistine was glad she didn’t have to engage in their schemes. She was already rooted too deeply in reliving the humiliating morning and wondering what the rest of Thorne’s cabal could possibly do to make it worse.
She’d barely finished her second helping when Tatiana sashayed into the room, wearing thick, baggy pants that hugged her ankles, and a shirt that was little more than a handkerchief covering her breasts and gesturing down to her navel. Cistine’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment, and she glanced at Julian. To his credit, he only scowled at Tatiana.
“Seems like it’s my turn with you.” Tatiana plucked an apple wedge from the pork platter and jammed it into the corner of her mouth. “I hope you’re ready to listen and learn, because I’m not going to waste my time on a princess whose only concerns are fabric patterns and beautiful boys.”
“I’m ready.” Cistine rose slowly, and winced. Her abdominal muscles and calves had seized up while she sat, and now she had to limp to join Tatiana in the doorway. Cistine threw a helpless smile back at her friends; Julian returned it, but Ashe only grimaced as she picked up Cistine’s plate and tossed it in the wash bucket.
Tatiana led her through the hall and to the right of the main parlor, and Cistine caught a brief glimpse across it to the doorway where she’d eavesdropped on the cabal the night before. She only spotted a sliver of the room beyond—a dark table, no chairs, and curved walls—before Tatiana opened a door down the opposite hall and thrust her inside.
Cistine liked this room at once. It was an amalgam of stone and wood like many of the homes in Hellidom, the broad, dark beams overhead forging a cozy atmosphere. While there were no windows, plenty of light burned from the hearth on the wall; and there were clothes everywhere.
Cistine’s mouth practically watered at the sight: dresses laid out on the bed, shirts and pants hanging from hooks on the walls. All the seating was buried under glittering flats, silk robes, and thick wool coats.
Cistine ran her fingers over a sheer aquamarine dress on the bed. “Where did you buy all these?”
“Wherever I could find them. Caravan raids, shops in Veran, here in Hellidom—don’t touch that, it’s worth more than your life. Why am I not surprised you love clothes?”
“Apparently, so do you. Some of these patterns…I’ve never seen anything like them before. The corset is so thick—”
“Armored,” Tatiana smirked. “Because even at a Valgardan ball, someone might try to kill you.”
Cistine snatched her hand back. There wasn’t a hint of jest in Tatiana’s eyes, or in her smile. “Has that happened to you?”
Tatiana raked a palm up the length of her bare arm, along a faint scar from her elbow to her shoulder. “When you live this life as long as I have, you accumulate a few wounds. Not that you would know anything about that.”
“I’m not here to compare scars with you,” Cistine said, “no more than I’m here to hurt your city, or this cabal. I just want to learn what I need to know, and then be on my way. That’s all.”
“It’s not about your intentions. It’s about the danger your presence poses. Quill obviously didn’t think of that. Thorne didn’t care. And even if Maleck did, he wouldn’t say anything. Which means as usual, Ariadne and I are the only ones thinking clearly.”
Cistine perched her hands on her hips. “Well, now I’m in danger from associating with you. But I’m willing to make the most of it, and I gave Thorne the name he wanted. So I’d like it very much if we could survive these sessions without killing each other.”
Tatiana’s brows floated upward. Her lips twitched. “All right, then. Where would you like to start?”
Cistine selected a plush chair, moved the shirts from its cushion, and lowered herself gingerly into it. Her aching muscles thanked her with a slim edge of relief, and she watched as Tatiana shut the door, stoked the hearth, and settled onto the bed. Its beige-and-cream linens complimented both the wooden walls and Tatiana’s skin as she settled, cross-legged and comfortable, among the pillows. “I can ask about anything?”
“Whatever you like,” Tatiana said. “And I can choose whether or not to answer that question.”
Cistine quirked her lips to the side, surveying the room. “Do you have something to write with? And on?”
“You want to know if Valgard has writing utensils?”
Cistine scowled. “I want to know if I may use them.”
“I know what you meant.” Tatiana unlatched the drawer of her bedside table and withdrew a thick book, tossing it to Cistine. “Do what you want with that. I’ve never written in it.”
Cistine couldn’t fathom why. The embossed cover, fletched with what looked like real gold shavings, had to be worth a heap of mynts. She told Tatiana as much, and the warrior shrugged. “It’s too sentimental to part with, but the memories are too heavy for me to write over them, either.”
Cistine caught the fountain pen Tatiana flicked to her and paused with the tip to the paper, considering her many questions. “Start at the beginning. How is this kingdom laid out?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Not to conquer it! If I’m going to navigate through it, I ought to know where I’m going!”
“Fair.” Tatiana rolled from the bed and retrieved a scroll from the bookcase beside the hearth. Flopping onto the arm of Cistine’s chair, she unrolled the map across their laps. “Valgard is one entity with different limbs.” She traced her finger along the map, tapping the middle of it. “This is Stornhaz, the beating heart of Valgard. If our kingdom is like a wheel, then Stornhaz is the hub, and the borders of the territories are its spokes.”
Tatiana pointed to the boundaries, one after the other. “Due north of Stornhaz, you’re in Spoek, named for the Ghost star at the crown of the territory. It encompasses the Isetfell Mountains. Northeast from Stornhaz is Nordbran, under the North Fire. It’s a brutal place, especially up near the steppes before you reach the mountains. Winter nights are cold enough to kill you. Summer days are hot enough to burn.”
Cistine jotted notes rapidly, struggling to keep pace with Tatiana’s succinct descriptions. “And due east?”
“Kroaken,” Tatiana said. “Under the Crow. These are the drylands, lower than Nordbran, and more fertile…especially as you travel closer to the southeast. That’s where you’ll encounter Lataus, under the Mist. It’s all forests and cliffs, mostly. The Nior River that turns our watermills runs down from Lataus into this territory.”
“And which territory is this?”
“Unsverd,” Tatiana said. “The Scythe of the Undertaker. It extends from Stornhaz all the way to the southern border we share with your Middle Kingdom, but it’s mostly uninhabitable fens and a wilderness called the Wildwood.”
Cistine resisted the urge to shudder at Unsverd’s cruel name, and the cruel star under which these cruel people lived. “What about the southwest?”
Tatiana brushed a gentle fingertip along the map. “Blaykrone.”
There it was again: the name that had brought Thorne’s voice so low and inspired so much concern from Quill the night before. But Cistine couldn’t give any indication she’d heard either of those things, so she let her pen hover patiently over the page while she waited. And waited.
When Tatiana didn’t speak, Cistine murmured, “Is that one important to you?”
Tatiana shook herself. “No more than any other. Blaykrone is under the Blood Crown. It extends from Stornhaz to the Vaszaj Range, before Veran, which is under the Loom. It’s the only city that governs itself. Due west of Stornhaz is Eben, under the River. It’s watered by tributaries from the kingdom’s second-largest river, the Ismalete, so it’s mostly wetlands.”
“And the northwest?”
“Erdotre,” Tatiana said. “From Stornhaz through the Sotefold Forest. Not a friendly place. Most of the rugs in the Den are pelts from creatures unique to that territory.”
Cistine compared the markings on the map to what she’d written down. “And each Chancellor oversees all eight territories?”
Tatiana snorted. “Politics are for another day. I overheard Quill and Thorne discussing things earlier. I take it you’re in need of new threads?”
Cistine bit back a groan. “I’m perfectly capable of shopping for myself.”
“Of course. You look as though you’ve bought plenty of armor in your lifetime. So, tell me which is better: steel silk from the Skurkopp spiders of the forest, or dragon scales? Or the hide of the Farkas wolves in Kroaken?”
Cistine shut the journal and folded her arms on it, glaring at Tatiana, who smiled back.
Cistine knew which of them would inevitably win this staring match, because she’d heard what Thorne had said to his cabal. His warning rattled in her skull about Svarkyst steel and what it could do to armor, nevermind the flesh beneath it. “Do you have any dragon scale armor?”
Tatiana’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Not enough of it. But we’ll find you something fitting, I have no doubt about that. Just come to the market with me tonight.”
“Why would you want to help me find armor? You clearly don’t like me.”
“Oh, I like you well enough for a spoiled, soft Talheimic princess,” Tatiana said, “which is the problem. But if Thorne wants you here for now, I might as well have my fun with you. What do you say?”
Cistine looked Tatiana over, fighting the fear that this woman would find a way to dispose of her in the city tonight and solve the little problem Thorne and Quill had created by bringing Talheimic visitors into Hellidom in the first place.
But when she considered another day of sweating and panting around the jogging circuit in a dress, she found herself agreeing despite her fears.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE PROSPECT OF training with Maleck absolutely terrified Cistine. When he came to retrieve her from Tatiana’s room, she almost begged the other girl to come with them, if only so she wouldn’t have to spend a moment alone with the colder of the two death-gods.
But Maleck was also quieter than Cistine had expected. He led her to one of the Den’s upper rooms, accessible by a small door in the corridor that housed Julian and Ashe, leaving it open behind them.
Like Thorne’s room, this stretch of attic space was long, peaked, and covered in furs; but here the dark walls sported lines of weapon racks, everything from shining blades to dark flails to polearms. Each one was familiar, but sparked no excitement, no joy. Only dull resignation.
She trailed after Maleck to a rack of daggers, and he gestured her to sit on a bench before it. While he browsed the knives fastidiously, Cistine knotted her fingers together and pressed them into her lap, trying not to think of what she’d seen him do on the Vingete Vey. With his bare hands, he could deal more damage than Cistine could with all the weapons in this room.
After several minutes, Maleck’s stony silence became unbearable. Cistine cleared her throat. “Is there something I should be doing?”
Maleck turned and offered her a knife. “Hold this.”
Cistine curled her fingers over the grip’s ridged wrappings. Maleck stared at her as if he was waiting for something, so Cistine shrugged, avoiding his gaze.
He picked up another knife, and they traded weapons. “Quill tells me you gave up the sword when you were seven. Why?”
Cistine handed the second knife back to him. “Ask Quill. I told him that, too.”
“I want to hear it from your mouth.”
With a sigh, Cistine recounted the story to him.
“Training the mind over the body,” Maleck said as he handed her a third knife. “If I’d possessed the freedom to make such a choice, things would not be for me as they are now.”
Cistine finally dared to look up at him. His face was still stony, but something had shifted. His jaw, perhaps. The angle of his eyes. “And…how are they?”
Maleck shook his head, taking the knife back. “I don’t want to frighten you.”
It was very likely a thinly-veiled threat, yet Cistine had the sense he was truly sparing her from something terrible—and the gossiping, curious part of her wanted to know what it was. “I don’t frighten easily.”
“Nor do I, but my word stands.” Maleck lined the knives on the floor at Cistine’s feet. “Which was lightest?”
Cistine shrugged again. “I don’t know. They all felt the same.”
Maleck blew out a long breath through his nose. Then he gathered the knives and handed the first one to her again. “What of your Warden, Ashe?”
Tension corded Cistine’s body at once, curling her toes and sending fresh pangs into her abused muscles. She gripped the knife tightly, her knuckles crackling. “What about her?”
“She was unafraid to face me.”
Cistine chose her next words carefully, with the sense that withholding truth from Maleck was just as dangerous as answering the wrong way. “Ashe has always been fearless, as long as I’ve known her. As long as she’s served my father, at least…since she was twelve.”
“She fought here, in the war?”
“Yes,” Cistine said. “It may have surprised you she could face you even with her leg injured. But not me…that’s just who Ashe is. It’s what all the Cadre does.”
“Why did she join the Cadre?” Maleck passed her the second knife.
“You should ask her. It’s not my story to tell.”
Maleck nodded as they traded knives again. “And Julian. What is he?”
Cistine almost choked. Her answer today, as opposed to yesterday…fathoms of difference. The two were hardly comparable. “He’s a…a friend. The son of a lord in my kingdom.”
Maleck took the knife back from her shaking hand and laid them all out again. “Which one was the heaviest?”
